Part 1 (1/2)

THE NAUTICAL CHART.

Arturo Perez-Reverte.

A nautical chart is much more than an indispensable instrument for getting from one place to another; it is an engraving, a page of history, at times a novel of adventure.

JACQUES DUPUET DUPUET.

LET US US observe the night. It is nearly perfect, with Polaris visible in its prescribed location, to the right and five times the distance of the line formed between Merak and Dubhe. Polaris will remain in that exact place for the next twenty thousand years, and any sailor watching it will be comforted by seeing it overhead. It is, after all, rea.s.suring to know that something somewhere is immutable, as precise people set a course on a nautical chart or on the blurred landscape of a life. If we continue perusing the stars, we will have no difficulty finding Orion, and then Perseus and the Pleiades. That will be easy because the night is so clear, not a cloud in the sky, not a hint of a breeze. The wind from the southwest eased at sunset, and the dock is a black mirror reflecting the lights of the cranes in the port, the lighted castles high on the mountains, and the flashes-green on one side and red on the other-from the lighthouses of San Pedro and Navidad. observe the night. It is nearly perfect, with Polaris visible in its prescribed location, to the right and five times the distance of the line formed between Merak and Dubhe. Polaris will remain in that exact place for the next twenty thousand years, and any sailor watching it will be comforted by seeing it overhead. It is, after all, rea.s.suring to know that something somewhere is immutable, as precise people set a course on a nautical chart or on the blurred landscape of a life. If we continue perusing the stars, we will have no difficulty finding Orion, and then Perseus and the Pleiades. That will be easy because the night is so clear, not a cloud in the sky, not a hint of a breeze. The wind from the southwest eased at sunset, and the dock is a black mirror reflecting the lights of the cranes in the port, the lighted castles high on the mountains, and the flashes-green on one side and red on the other-from the lighthouses of San Pedro and Navidad.

Now let us turn to the man. He stands motionless, leaning against the coping of the wall. He is looking at the sky, which appears darker in the east, and thinking that in the morning the easterly will be blowing, raising a swell out beyond the harbor. He also seems to be smiling a strange smile. Lighted from below by the glow of the port, his face is less hopeful than most, and perhaps even bitter. But we know the reason. We know that during the last weeks, at sea and a few miles from here, wind and waves have been decisive in this man's life. Although now they have no importance at all.

Let us not lose sight of him, because we are going to tell his story. As we look over the port with him, we can make out the lights of a s.h.i.+p moving slowly away from the dock. The sound of her engines is m.u.f.fled by distance and the sounds of the city, along with the throb of propellers churning the black water as the crew hauls in the final length of mooring line. And as he watches from the wall, the man feels two different types of pain. In the pit of his stomach is a pain born of the sadness evident in the grimace that resembles-soon we will understand that it merely resembles-a smile. But there is a second pain, sharper and more precise, that comes and goes on his right side, there where a cold moistness makes his s.h.i.+rt stick to his body as blood seeps down toward his hip, soaking the inside of his trousers with each beat of his heart and each pulse of his veins.

Fortunately, the man thinks, my heart is beating very slowly tonight.

Lot 307

I have swum through oceans and sailed through libraries. HERMAN have swum through oceans and sailed through libraries. HERMAN MELVILLE MELVILLE, Moby d.i.c.k Moby d.i.c.k We could call him Ishmael, but in truth his name is Coy. I met him in the next-to-last act of this story, when he was on the verge of becoming just one more s.h.i.+pwrecked sailor floating on his coffin as the whaler Rachel Rachel looked for lost sons. By then he had already been drifting some, including the afternoon when he came to the Claymore auction gallery in Barcelona with the intention of killing time. He had a small sum of money in his pocket and, in a room in a boarding-house near the Ramblas, a few books, a s.e.xtant, and a pilot's license that four months earlier the head office of the Merchant Marine had suspended for two years, after the looked for lost sons. By then he had already been drifting some, including the afternoon when he came to the Claymore auction gallery in Barcelona with the intention of killing time. He had a small sum of money in his pocket and, in a room in a boarding-house near the Ramblas, a few books, a s.e.xtant, and a pilot's license that four months earlier the head office of the Merchant Marine had suspended for two years, after the Isla Negra, Isla Negra, a forty-thousand-ton container s.h.i.+p, had run aground in the Indian Ocean at 04:20 hours... on his watch. a forty-thousand-ton container s.h.i.+p, had run aground in the Indian Ocean at 04:20 hours... on his watch.

Coy liked auctions of naval objects, although in his present situation he was in no position to bid. But Claymore's, located on a first floor on calle Consell de Cent, was air-conditioned and served drinks at the end of the auction, and besides, the young woman at the reception desk had long legs and a pretty smile. As for the items to be sold, he enjoyed looking at them and imagining the stranded sailors who had been carrying them here and there until they were washed up on this final beach. All through the session, sitting with his hands in the pockets of his dark-blue wool jacket, he kept track of the buyers who carried off his favorites. Often this pastime was disillusioning. A magnificent diving suit, whose dented and gloriously scarred copper helmet made him think of s.h.i.+pwrecks, banks of sponges and Negulesco's films with giant squid and Sophia Loren emerging from the water with her wet blouse plastered to her body, was acquired by an antique dealer whose pulse never missed a beat as he raised his numbered paddle. And a very old Browne & Son hand-bearing compa.s.s, in good condition and in its original box, for which Coy would have given his soul during his days as an apprentice, was awarded, without any change in the opening price, to an individual who looked as if he knew absolutely nothing about the sea; that piece would sell for ten times its value if it were displayed in the window of any maritime sporting-goods shop.

The fact is, that afternoon the auctioneer hammered down lot 306-a Ulysse Nardin chronometer used in the Italian Royal Navy-at the opening price, consulting his notes as he pushed up his gla.s.ses with his index finger. He was suave, and was wearing a salmon-colored s.h.i.+rt and a rather das.h.i.+ng necktie. Between bids he took small sips of a gla.s.s of water.

”Next lot: Atlas Maritimo de las Costas de Espana, Atlas Maritimo de las Costas de Espana, the work of Urrutia Salcedo. Number three oh seven.” the work of Urrutia Salcedo. Number three oh seven.”

He accompanied the announcement with a discreet smile saved for pieces whose importance he meant to highlight. An eighteenth-century jewel of cartography, he added after a significant pause, emphasizing the word ”jewel” as if it pained him to release it. His a.s.sistant, a young man in blue overalls, held up the large folio volume so it could be seen from the floor, and Coy looked at it with a stab of sadness. According to the Claymore catalogue, it was rare to find this edition for sale, since most of the copies were in libraries and museums. This one was in perfect condition. Most likely it had never been on a s.h.i.+p, where humidity, penciled notations, and natural wear and tear left their irreparable traces on navigational charts.

The auctioneer was opening the bidding at a price that would have allowed Coy to live for half a year in relative comfort. A man with broad shoulders, a clear brow, and long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, who was sitting in the first row and whose cell phone had rung three times, to the irritation of others in the room, held up his paddle, number n. Other hands went up as the auctioneer, small wooden gavel in hand, turned his attention from one to another, his modulated voice repeating each offer and suggesting the next with professional monotony The opening price was about to be doubled, and prospective buyers of lot 307 began dropping by the wayside. Joining the corpulent individual with the gray ponytail in the battle was another man, lean and bearded, a woman-of whom Coy could see only the back of a head of short blond hair and the hand raising her paddle-and a very well-dressed bald man. When the woman doubled the initial price, gray ponytail half-turned to send a miffed glance in her direction, and Coy glimpsed green eyes, an aggressive profile, a large nose, and an arrogant expression. The hand holding his paddle bore several gold rings. The man gave the appearance of not being accustomed to compet.i.tion, and he turned to his right brusquely, where a dark-haired, heavily made-up young woman who had been murmuring into the phone every time it rang was now suffering the consequences of his bad humor. He rebuked her harshly in a low voice.

”Do I hear a bid?”

Gray ponytail raised his hand, and the blonde woman immediately counterattacked, lifting her paddle, number 74. That caused a stir in the room. The lean bearded man decided to withdraw, and after two new raises the bald, well-dressed man began to waver.

Gray ponytail raised the bidding, and caused new frowns in his vicinity when his phone rang once again. He took it from the hand of his secretary and clamped it between his shoulder and his ear; at the same time his free hand shot up to respond to the bid the blonde had just made. At this point in the contest, the entire room was clearly on the side of the blonde, hoping that ponytail would run out of either money or phone batteries. The Urrutia was now at triple the opening price, and Coy exchanged an amused glance with the man in the next seat, a small dark-haired man with a thick mustache and hair slicked back with gel. His neighbor returned the look with a courteous smile, placidly crossing his hands in his lap and twirling his thumbs. He was small and fastidious, almost prissy, and had melancholy, appealing, slightly bulging eyes, like frogs in fairy tales. He wore a red polka-dot bow tie and a hybrid, half Prince of Wales, half Scots tartan jacket that gave him the outlandishly British air of a Turk dressed by Burberry. ”Do I have a higher bid?”

The auctioneer held his gavel high, his inquisitive eyes focused on gray ponytail, who had handed the cell phone back to his secretary and was staring at him with annoyance. His latest bid, exactly three times the original price, had been covered by the blonde, whose face Coy, more and more curious, could not see no matter how hard he tried to peer between the heads in front of him. It was difficult to guess whether it was the b.u.mp in the bidding that was perturbing ponytail or the woman's bra.s.sy compet.i.tiveness.

”Ladies and gentlemen, is this the last bid?” asked the auctioneer, with great equanimity.

He was looking at ponytail, without eliciting a response. Everyone in the room was looking expectantly in the same direction. Including Coy.

”Then at the current price, going once- At this price, going twice-”

Gray ponytail thrust up his paddle in a violent gesture, as if he were brandis.h.i.+ng a weapon. As a murmur spread through the room, Coy again looked to the blonde. Her paddle was already up, topping his bid. Once again the tension built, and for the next two minutes everyone in the room followed the rapid duel's intense pace as if watching a fight to the death. Paddle number 11 was no sooner down than 74 was up. Not even the auctioneer could keep up; he had to pause a couple of times to sip from the gla.s.s of water sitting on the lectern.

”Do I have a further bid?”

Urrutia's Atlas Atlas was at five times its opening price when number 11 committed an error. Perhaps his nerve faltered, although the error might have been his secretary's; her phone rang insistently and she pa.s.sed it to him at a critical moment, just as the auctioneer was holding the gavel high in expectation of a new bid, and gray ponytail hesitated as if reconsidering. The error, if that is what it was, might also have been the fault of the auctioneer, who may have interpreted the sudden movement, the turn toward the secretary, as a capitulation and an end to the bidding. Or perhaps there was no error at all, because auctioneers, like other human beings, have their hang-ups and their phobias, and this one might have been inclined to favor ponytail's opponent. Whatever the case, three seconds were all that were needed for the gavel to bang down on the lectern. Urrutia's was at five times its opening price when number 11 committed an error. Perhaps his nerve faltered, although the error might have been his secretary's; her phone rang insistently and she pa.s.sed it to him at a critical moment, just as the auctioneer was holding the gavel high in expectation of a new bid, and gray ponytail hesitated as if reconsidering. The error, if that is what it was, might also have been the fault of the auctioneer, who may have interpreted the sudden movement, the turn toward the secretary, as a capitulation and an end to the bidding. Or perhaps there was no error at all, because auctioneers, like other human beings, have their hang-ups and their phobias, and this one might have been inclined to favor ponytail's opponent. Whatever the case, three seconds were all that were needed for the gavel to bang down on the lectern. Urrutia's Atlas Atlas was awarded to the blonde woman whose face Coy still hadn't seen. was awarded to the blonde woman whose face Coy still hadn't seen.

LOT 307 was one of the last, and the rest of the session proceeded without emotion or drama, except that the man with the ponytail did not bid on any other item, and before the end of the auction he stood up and left the room, followed by the hastily tapping heels of the secretary-not, however, without first directing a furious glare at the blonde. Nor did she lift her paddle again. The thin, bearded individual ended up in possession of a very handsome marine telescope, and a gentleman with a stern expression and dirty fingernails, sitting in front of Coy, obtained for only slightly more than the opening price a model of the 307 was one of the last, and the rest of the session proceeded without emotion or drama, except that the man with the ponytail did not bid on any other item, and before the end of the auction he stood up and left the room, followed by the hastily tapping heels of the secretary-not, however, without first directing a furious glare at the blonde. Nor did she lift her paddle again. The thin, bearded individual ended up in possession of a very handsome marine telescope, and a gentleman with a stern expression and dirty fingernails, sitting in front of Coy, obtained for only slightly more than the opening price a model of the San Juan Nepomuceno San Juan Nepomuceno that was almost three feet long and in quite good condition. The last lot, a set of old charts from the British Admiralty, remained unsold. The auctioneer called an end to the session, and everyone got up and moved to the small salon where Claymore treated its clients to champagne. that was almost three feet long and in quite good condition. The last lot, a set of old charts from the British Admiralty, remained unsold. The auctioneer called an end to the session, and everyone got up and moved to the small salon where Claymore treated its clients to champagne.

Coy looked for the blond woman. In other circ.u.mstances, he would have devoted more attention to the smile of the young receptionist, who came up to him with a trayful of goblets. The receptionist recognized him from other auctions. She knew that he never bid on anything, and was undoubtedly aware of the faded jeans and white sneakers he wore as a complement to the dark navy-blue jacket with two parallel rows of b.u.t.tons that at one time had been gold and bearing the anchor of the Merchant Marine, but now were a more discreet plain black. The cuffs showed the marks of the officer's stripes they had once sported. Coy was very fond of the jacket-when he wore it he felt connected with the sea. Especially at dusk when he made the rounds of the port district, dreaming of the days when just calling at hiring offices you could pick up a s.h.i.+p to sign on to, times when there were remote islands that were a man's haven, reasonable republics that knew nothing of two-year suspensions, and where arrest warrants and subpoenas from naval tribunals never arrived. He had had the jacket made to order fifteen years earlier, with regulation trousers and cap, at the tailor shop of Sucesores de Rafael Vails. After he pa.s.sed the examination for second officer, he would sail everywhere with it, wearing it on the ever rarer occasions in the life of a Merchant Marine officer when it was obligatory to wear correct attire. He called that ancient treasure his Lord Jim jacket-still very appropriate to his present situation-because it dated from the beginning of what he, an a.s.siduous reader of seafaring literature, denned as his Conrad period. In that vein, Coy had previously lived a Stevenson period and a Melville period. Of the three, around which he ordered his life whenever he decided to take a glance back at the wake that every man leaves behind him, this one was the least happy. He had just turned thirty-eight, and was feeing twenty months on suspension and a captain's examination that had been postponed without a set date. He was stranded on land, burdened by a court action that drew a frown from the hiring officer of any s.h.i.+pping company whose door he darkened, and the boarding-house near the Ramblas and his meals at Teresa's were mercilessly devouring his savings. A couple of weeks more and he would have to accept a berth as an ordinary seaman aboard some rusting freighter with a Ukrainian crew, Greek captain, and Antillean registry, the kind that s.h.i.+p-owners scuttle for the insurance from time to time, often with a bogus cargo and no time to pack your seabag. Either mat or give up the sea and look for a job on dry land. The mere idea nauseated him, because Coy-even though it had been of little use aboard the Isla Negra Isla Negra-possessed the princ.i.p.al virtue of every sailor: a certain sense of insecurity that took the form of mistrust, something comprehensible only to someone who has seen a barometer drop five millibars in three hours on the Bay of Biscay, or has found himself being overtaken by a half-million-ton, quarter-mile-long oil tanker in the Straits of Hormuz, at closer and closer quarters. It was the same vague sensation, or sixth sense, that woke you at night when there was a change in the throb of the engines, that raised apprehension at the sight of a black cloud on the far horizon, or when unexpectedly, and for no real reason, the captain appeared on the bridge to give a look around, as if he had nothing particular in mind. A feeling that was normal, on the other hand, in a profession in which the usual procedure when standing watch was to make minute by minute comparisons between the gyroscopic and magnetic compa.s.ses; or, to put it another way, to verify a false north by means of another north that itself was not true. And as was the case with Coy, that sense of insecurity was paradoxically accentuated as soon as his feet touched the deck of a s.h.i.+p. He had the misfortune, or the good luck, to be one of those men who was happiest ten miles from the nearest coast.

He took a sip from the gla.s.s the receptionist had just offered him with a flirtatious glance. He wasn't good-looking. His less than average height exaggerated the width of his brawny shoulders, and he had wide, hard hands bequeathed him by a businessman father who had no luck in the chandlery trade and who in lieu of money had left him the rolling, almost clumsy stride of someone not convinced that the earth he is treading on can be trusted. The harsh lines of his wide mouth and large, aggressive nose were softened by the tranquil, dark, soft eyes that recalled certain hunting dogs when they look at their masters. He also had a timid, sincere, almost childlike smile that came often to his lips, reinforcing the impression of that loyal, slightly sad gaze, a look rewarded by the champagne and friendly overtures from the receptionist, who was walking away through the clients now, de rigueur short skirt switching above the shapely legs she believed were holding Coy's eyes.

Believed. Because at that moment, even as he lifted the gla.s.s to his lips, he was looking around for the blonde woman. For an instant his eyes lighted on the short man with the melancholy eyes and checked jacket, who nodded courteously. Coy kept searching the room until he sighted her through the crowd. Again her back was to him, and she was standing holding a gla.s.s of champagne. She was wearing a suede jacket, dark skirt, and low-heeled shoes. Gradually, he made his way toward her, curious, studying her smooth gold hair, cut high at the nape of the neck and felling on each side toward her chin in two perfect diagonal, though asymmetrical, lines. As she talked, her hair swung softly, the tips brus.h.i.+ng cheeks Coy could appreciate only from a foreshortened perspective. And after crossing two thirds of the distance between them, he saw that the naked line of her neck was covered with freckles, hundreds of tiny little specks barely darker than the pigment of her skin, which was not terribly fair despite the blond hair-a tone that indicated sun, open skies, and outdoor life. And then, when he was but two steps away and starting to move around her casually in order to see her face, she said good-bye to the auctioneer and turned, pausing a couple of seconds in front of Coy, just long enough to set her gla.s.s on a table, sidestep him with a lithe movement of her shoulders and waist, and walk away. Their glances had crossed in that brief instant, and he had time to notice that her unusual eyes were dark, with glints of blue. Or maybe it was the other way round, blue eyes with dark glints, navy-blue irises that slid over Coy without noticing him, as he confirmed that she also had freckles on her forehead and cheeks and throat and hands. That she was covered with freckles, and that they lent her a singular, attractive, almost adolescent look, even though she must be well into her twenties. He could see that she wore a large, masculine, stainless-steel watch with a black dial on her right wrist. And that she was a few inches taller than he, and very pretty.

COY left five minutes later. The glow from the city reflected on clouds scudding through dark skies toward the southeast, and he knew that the wind was going to s.h.i.+ft and that it might rain mat night. He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his jacket while deciding whether to head left or right, which involved a choice between a light snack in a nearby bar or a walk to the Plaza Real and two Bombay Sapphire gins with a lot of tonic. Or maybe one, he corrected himself quickly, after recalling the lamentable state of his wallet. There was very little traffic, and through die leaves on the trees, as far as he could see, a long line of stoplights was sequentially changing from yellow to red. After deliberating for ten seconds, just as the last light turned red and the nearest changed back to green, he started walking to his right. That was the first mistake of the night. left five minutes later. The glow from the city reflected on clouds scudding through dark skies toward the southeast, and he knew that the wind was going to s.h.i.+ft and that it might rain mat night. He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his jacket while deciding whether to head left or right, which involved a choice between a light snack in a nearby bar or a walk to the Plaza Real and two Bombay Sapphire gins with a lot of tonic. Or maybe one, he corrected himself quickly, after recalling the lamentable state of his wallet. There was very little traffic, and through die leaves on the trees, as far as he could see, a long line of stoplights was sequentially changing from yellow to red. After deliberating for ten seconds, just as the last light turned red and the nearest changed back to green, he started walking to his right. That was the first mistake of the night.

LNAM: Law of Non-Accidental Meetings. Based on Murphy's well-known law-one that had several serious confirmations recently-Coy had the habit of establis.h.i.+ng, for private consumption, a series of colorful laws he baptized with absolute technical solemnity. LADWU: Law of Always Dance With the Ugliest, for example; or LBTAFFD: Law of b.u.t.tered Toast Always Falls Face Down, and other principles more or less applicable to the recent miserable state of his life. These laws didn't accomplish anything, of course, except to occasion a smile from time to time. At his own expense. No matter, Coy was convinced that in the strange order of the Universe, as in jazz-he was a great jazz fen-chance played a large role, like improvisations so mathematical that you had to ask yourself if they weren't written somewhere. And it was right here that his recently formulated LNAM was proved. As he approached the corner he saw a large silver-gray car parked at the curb, with one of its doors standing open. Then, near a streetlight a little farther away, he could see a man talking with a woman. He first recognized the man, who was facing him, and after a few steps, when he could see how angry he was, Coy realized that the man was arguing with a woman. Now visible in the light from overhead, she was blond, with hair cut high on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a suede jacket and a dark skirt. He felt a tingling in his stomach. Sometimes, he told himself, life becomes predictable by nature of its pure unpredictability. He hesitated a minute before adding, or vice versa. Then he reckoned direction and drift. If there was one thing he was capable of, it was instinctively to calculate these situations, although the last time he had determined a route-a rout would be much closer to fact-it had led directly to a s.h.i.+pping tribunal. At any rate, he altered his course by ten degrees in order to pa.s.s as close as possible to the couple. That was his second mistake. It was at odds with any sailor's common sense, which counseled maintaining sea room at any cost, or danger ahead.

THE man with the gray ponytail looked furious. At first Coy couldn't hear what he was saying because he was talking in a low voice. He did, however, observe that one hand was raised, with a finger pointing at the woman, who was standing stock-still, facing him. Then the finger moved, jabbing her shoulder with more anger than violence, and she retreated a step, as if frightened.

”... the consequences,” Coy heard ponytail say. ”You understand? All the consequences.”

Again the finger was poised to jab her shoulder, and she took another step back. Now the man seemed to think better of it, and instead he grabbed her arm, not so much in a violent way as to convince or intimidate. She jumped, startled, and again moved back, shaking free. Ponytail made a move toward her arm again, but found himself blocked by Coy, who had slipped between them and was staring him straight in the face. Ponytail s hand froze, its rings glittering in the light, his mouth open to say something to the woman... or maybe because he didn't know where this character in the navy-blue jacket and sneakers had come from, with his st.u.r.dy shoulders and wide, hard hands hanging at either side with feigned casualness, fingers at the side seams of his well-worn jeans.

”Pardon?” said the man with die ponytail.

He had a slight, unrecognizable accent, something between Andalusian and foreign. He stared at Coy, surprised and curious, as if trying unsuccessfully to place him. His expression had changed; he was stunned, especially once he realized that he didn't know the intruder. Ponytail was taller than Coy-almost everyone that night was-and Coy saw him glance over his head toward the woman, as if expecting a clarification regarding this change in the program. Coy couldn't see her. She was behind him, and hadn't moved or spoken a word.

”What the h.e.l.l...” began ponytail, but he cut himself short, his face bleak as if he had just been given bad news. Standing there before him, mouth closed and hands at his sides, Coy calculated the possibilities. Even though he was furious, the man kept his cool. He was dressed in an expensive jacket and tie, elegant shoes, and on his left wrist, above the hand with the rings, shone a very heavy, ultramodern gold watch. This guy lifts twenty pounds of gold every time he knots his tie, thought Coy. The total effect was attractive. He had good shoulders and an athletic build. But he isn't the kind, Coy concluded, to pick a fistfight in the middle of the street, not right in front of the Claymore auction gallery.

Coy still couldn't see the woman, although he could sense her eyes on him. I hope at least, he told himself, that she doesn't go running off, that she'll take time to say thank you-if I don't get my face bashed in, that is. For his part, ponytail had turned to his left and was staring at the window of a boutique as if expecting someone to step out carrying an explanation in an Armani handbag. In the light from the shop window, Coy could see that the man's eyes were brown. That surprised him a little, since he had remembered them being green in the auction house. But when the man turned in the opposite direction, toward the street, Coy could see that he had one eye of each color. The right one was brown, the left green, starboard and port. He also saw something more disturbing than the color of the man's eyes. The open door of the car, which was an enormous Audi, lighted the interior, where the secretary sat witnessing the scene and smoking a cigarette. It also lighted the coat-and-tie-clad chauffeur, a hulk with very curly hair, who was getting out of the car. The chauffeur was not elegant, nor did he look as if he would have ponytail s refined voice. His nose was flattened like a boxer's, and his face seemed to have been st.i.tched and rest.i.tched a half dozen times, losing a few pieces in the process. He had a sallow, somewhat Berberish cast to his skin. Coy remembered having seen rough guys who looked like him working as doormen in wh.o.r.ehouses in Beirut and dance halls in Panama. They often carried a switchblade hidden in their right sock.

This was not going to turn out well, he reflected with resignation. LTLGVL: Law of Takes a Lot and Gives Very Little. Those two were going to break a couple of indispensable bones, and in the meantime the girl would run away like Cinderella or Snow White-Coy always got those two stories mixed up, because they didn't have s.h.i.+ps in them-and he would never see her again. But for the moment she was still there, and he took note of the blue eyes with dark glints; or maybe, he remembered, it was dark with blue glints. He felt them on his back. He didn't miss the twisted humor in the fact he was about to get the holy s.h.i.+t beat out of him over a woman whose face he had seen for only two seconds.

”Why are you sticking your nose in something that's none of your business?” asked the man with the ponytail.

It was a good question. Ponytail's tone was focused, calm, but also curious. At least that's how it sounded to Coy, who was keeping the chauffeur in sight out of the corner of his eye.

”This is... G.o.d almighty,” ponytail blurted when Coy didn't answer. ”Just... get out of here.”

I bet she's wis.h.i.+ng the same thing, Coy thought. She's agreeing with this guy and saying, Who asked you to hold a candle at this funeral? Move along, and don't b.u.t.t in where you're not invited. And you mumble an apology, your ears burning; you walk away, turn the corner, and slit your wrists for being a complete idiot. Now she's leaving and saying- But she didn't say anything. She was as silent as Coy himself. Coy stood there between them, staring into the bicolored eyes opposite him, a step away and a foot above his. He couldn't actually think of anything else to do, and if he spoke he was going to lose what small advantage he had. He knew from experience that a man who keeps his mouth shut is more intimidating than one who doesn't, because it's difficult to guess what he has in mind. Maybe ponytail was of the same opinion, because he was looking at Coy thoughtfully. Finally Coy thought he saw a glimmer of uncertainty in the eyes of the Dalmatian.

”Well, well,” ponytail said. ”Look what we have here. A hero from a B-movie.”

Coy kept staring, not uttering a word. If I move quickly, he thought, I could land a kick to his midsection before taking on the Berber. The question is the girl. I wonder what the f.u.c.k she'll do.

Suddenly ponytail exhaled, with a sigh that sounded like a sour, exaggerated laugh.

”This is ridiculous,” he said.

He sounded sincerely confused by the situation. Coy slowly lifted his left hand to scratch his nose, which was itching. That always happened when he was thinking. Give him the knee, he mused. I'll say something to distract him, he thought, and before he answers I'll knee him in the b.a.l.l.s. Then the problem will be the other guy, who will be warned. And not in the best of moods.